


Confluence

by chthonianCrocuta (lovesthesoundof)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 00:51:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3189644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovesthesoundof/pseuds/chthonianCrocuta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the First Age of the New Alternian Republic, Kanaya runs into an old acquaintance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Confluence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Phrenotobe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phrenotobe/gifts).



"Kanaya?"

The voice is unplaceable. You turn slowly, schooling your expression into calm indifference.

Almost at once, your mask slips: the speaker, approaching from the other side of the shuttle in faded cargo shorts and a wide-brimmed leather hat, has very familiar horns.

"...Aradia?"

Her face lights up. "Oh my gods, it _is_ you! What are the chances? Wow, you look..." She flounders for a word, gesturing at your dress. "...you look incredible. Is this one of your designs?"

It is. You're flattered, but more than that you're shocked. You haven't spoken to her since the two of you were eight. She used to FLARP with Vriska and Terezi, she used to go digging in the ruins near where she grew up. You made her a dress once. Dark Ones, but she'll have outgrown it now. She's almost as tall as you, and though her attire is of the prosaic sort favoured by archaeologists and explorers it does little to conceal a pleasing shape. Aradia Megido has grown up _well_.

If you're reading that look in her eyes correctly, she's fairly impressed with you too.

You fall back into conversation as though you haven't spent the last five sweeps apart, save that there's a lot more to talk about. She's here to meet a team of local archaeologists, as it turns out; she's the outside expert they've called in to talk to the residents of a pre-Imperial temple. It stands to reason: the closer you get to the heart of the old Empire and the Glub Zone the more ghosts you find, and Aradia always did have a way with the dead. For your part, you're following a lucrative private contract to do the planting for a landscape garden. Some rich greenblood with a taste for nature but no stomach for the wilds wants local roses to sit in beds and climb around pretty trellises, and with that many zeros in the fee you weren't about to argue. Word seems to have travelled since Jade put those pictures of your garden up on her blog.

Aradia's explaining the temple in context now, and you're doing your best to listen but somewhat preoccupied with watching her be passionate about the subject. Women like her make you hungry. Not rustbloods, because even now that colour equates more directly to flavour you find the idea of broadcasting your favourites insufferably boorish - no, your taste is for wild, reckless souls who don't always survive their brilliant ideas, and if you usually end up in a pile with them rather than on the concupiscent platform you wanted you have no one to blame but yourself. You've never been good at signals.

When you lamented as much to Rose the last time you inadvertantly palezoned yourself, she bought herself a night of exile to the cloth pile by pointing out that, with a little practice, you'd probably manage Morse Code just fine.

"What about you?" says Aradia then, turning from the distant speck of the temple far below to smile at you. "Back to nature? Last I heard you had that job with the outfitter all lined up. Gods, that was sweeps ago..."

You shake your head. "It went poorly after the first two seasons, which is to say that it became abundantly clear to all parties involved that I was not what they had been looking for after all. They wanted someone to do their work. I wanted to do mine."

Aradia grimaces in sympathy. "Ugh. I know that one. Undergraduates are slave labour on dig sites. Never mind the time or weather, send the students in to do the scut work and make sure you're there to pretend it was you who dug up the skeleton. Most of the time it isn't even worth course credit." She shudders. "Gods, if I ever do that to my potential future students, please do Present Aradia a favour and come rip my throat out. - Oh, wow, that was, hahah, that was...really forward, I'm sorry." She's laughing through the words; there's a tell-tale flush across her cheekbones. "I don't even know what that was."

You do. It was pale, classic pale, like the old stories you used to read to Mother. The last duty of an Imperial moirail, once their palemate passed beyond all hope of soothing or reason, was to be swifter than the state executioner. "I believe Terezi would classify it as "strawberry cream liquorice"," you say, the concept of black leanings shoehorned in to be kind to yourself as much as to her. "How fortunate that she is indisposed; she is rather fond of strawberry creams and liquorice."

"Yeah, she came right up and licked my face the first time we met in meatspace so I doubt there's anything left to shock me with." She sighs, sated with laughter. "I can't believe it's been so long. Do you still talk to any of the others?"

Abruptly you realise you'd rather talk about her. Bioluminesence ripples up the path of your spine, hot and prickling like a blush. This is why people say young drinkers are as transparent as their clothing is translucent. "Some of them. Nepeta stops by for milkshakes when she comes to town; Terezi somehow finds time in her busy schedule to argue with Rose and chew my fabric swatches. But Feferi has more hands full than she has _hands_ , nowanights, and Vriska - ...well. Vriska is the purrbeast who walks by herself, and all places are alike to her as long as they contain someone she can impress." Muscles behind your jaw tense; if you were a seadweller, your fins would flare with annoyance. "Everyone is very much the same as they ever were, only..."

"Older?"

There's a knowing quality to her smile. She's the oldest of you all, in a way - though rustbloods can expect to live for anywhere up to thirty sweeps in the age of the Alternian Republic, as opposed to the upper limit of a couple of dozen in the old Empire, that's still the blink of an eye compared to how long Vriska will spend irritating the galaxy. No wonder Aradia never had time for people like her. She doesn't have time to waste.

"Yes," you answer, barely managing to keep the pitying tremor from your voice. She's nearly fourteen and her temples are greying. "Older."

The poignance of the moment melts like snow before her laughter. It's quite possible that you've never known anyone so alive as Aradia Megido. "Well, I guess it was too much to hope that Vriska would ever grow up! So tell me about this _landscape_ you're planting. I love that. Forget gardens, you're planting _landscapes_ now..."

You let yourself be drawn back into conversation, aware that she changed the subject more for your benefit than for hers but too grateful to argue, and by the time you've meandered from your work to her work to recent historical discoveries (they found the wreck of the _Brazen Chain!_ ninety percent intact!) to Imperial fashions (oh, there _were_ some, not even a tyrant can stamp that out entirely, it's just a matter of finding them, perhaps there'll be something aboard _Brazen Chain_ , wasn't it supposedly the cult of the Signless that brought it down) and decided there's a slim possibility of the two of you working together in the future (because apparently your fields of expertise can meet, now and again), the shuttle has touched down. From here you'll catch a connecting flight to the nearest town and settle into your accommodations, while Aradia, whose base camp is within a few klicks of the landing zone, goes on foot to meet with her team and make preparations for the temple descent.

When she asks you if you'd like to come and see the exterior, you don't even think before saying yes.

The path down to the temple is well-worn, though the forest around it is largely undisturbed. Development has been slow and cautious here, perhaps in part because of the temple itself; fortunately for you and your desire to spend more time with Aradia, flights to town are regular. It would have been worth it for the walk alone, though. You've never seen trees quite like these before: ancient, sprawling behemoths, their twisted limbs festooned with hanging moss that phosphoresces in the light of four moons. The fifth moon, too dark to see save for the shadow it casts, partially eclipses a larger sibling; from the ground, they give the impression of a vast, watchful eye. What tides this place must have.

"I bet you're thinking of a way to turn that into a dress," Aradia teases as you pass your hand over a plume of moss.

You give her a wry smile. "Really. As though I need to glow _more_."

She laughs and takes your other hand; within a moment she's towing you toward the forest's edge. "Come on, you'll be looking at plants all week. _This_ is what you came out here to see."

All you can think about is the texture of her hand. Even when the temple comes into view - great stone steps and columns, a towering, headless figure seated cross-legged at the apex, its great stone head fallen to earth what must be millenia ago, all grown over with the same glowing moss - her fingers laced with yours seem a far more immediate wonder.

She lets go as you reach the base camp. Likely she can do without the gossip; you're hardly the Republic's least obvious rainbow drinker. Your fingers curl into your palm, already missing her warmth.

"Well," she says, "here goes."

You try for a teasing smile and hope it doesn't look as nervous as it feels. "Is this the part of the story where you walk proudly into the depths with your head held high and are never heard from again?"

Fortunately she takes the joke and runs with it. "Gods, I hope not - I can't trust anybody else with the paperwork! But hey: if I die in there, at least I can be sure of some _fascinating_ company." She's noticed your concern, though. "Don't worry. I've done this before. I'll tell you all about it when I get back." Just like in all the tragic backstories you've ever read... Belatedly she realises the same thing and smiles ruefully. "...I'm...not making this any better, am I?"

"Too late," you declare, deciding the only defence against your creeping fear is to keep pretending it's all in fun. "You have delved too deep. The only use for your shovel now will be as a fruitless defence against the ancient horrors you have awakened."

She grins. "Wow. Lalonde much?"

"There may have been a little cross-pollination over the sweeps," you admit, unperturbed. Aradia and Rose used to get on, you think. Didn't they? You can't remember clearly, and that shames you where your adoption of Rose's mannerisms does not. Aradia gives you a questioning look, and you answer it with one of sincerity that only partially covers your nerves. "...I regret that we fell out of contact, Aradia. I should like to remedy it - and, if you wish, make up for some lost time. Perhaps, presuming your vitally-challenged contacts permit you to depart the catacombs, you would join me for a morning meal upon your return?"

She doesn't look surprised. Her eyes betray the laughter her voice conceals. "Yeah, I'd like that. A lot, actually." For a moment you think, or wish, that she might do something impulsive - but no, you can see her checking herself, her fingers curling into her palm, her hand falling to her side. Not in front of the rest of the team. The passing sweeps have tempered her, if only a little. "...Good luck with the rosebeds."

You force a brighter smile than you have the courage to feel. "They will be as thorny a problem as one would expect - but, unlike their namesake, they are easily countered with gardening gloves."

She laughs aloud this time. "You're such a dork... Call me at the hotel in a week. If I don't answer, tell the girls I died well." She flashes you double pistols and a wink - _takes one to know one_ , you think to yourself - and then turns to her team. "Okay, listen up. Gear check. Everybody gather round, let's see what you forgot to pack - "

That's your cue to melt into the night. Not wanting to disturb her final preparations, you take it - and if there's a backward glance, just one, even a lingering one, who could judge you for it? After all, she might never come back.

(Seven nights later, she takes just two and a half rings to answer.)


End file.
